


A Complicated Man

by zulu



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Character of Color, M/M, Phone Sex, wooedforyears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 22:00:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why did you leave your phone on during Christmas dinner?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Complicated Man

Foreman's phone buzzes and dances in his pocket, and _Who's the black private dick that's a sex machine to all the chicks?_ breaks out loud enough to bring a startled pause to the conversation as everyone around the table, from his Aunt Erda down to his cousin Preston's kids, turn to him in blinking unison. Foreman jumps up hard enough to bang his knee on the underside of the table, simultaneously clapping his hand over his back pocket as if he can muffle the sound of _Shaft! Can you dig it?_ from spilling out. "Excuse me," he mutters, embarrassment tensing in his stomach and turning his skin hot. Preston's shoulders are dancing with laughter and Foreman can't even glare him into silence without making himself look like an even bigger idiot.

Dad stands up too, the carving knife already in his hands. "Eric, we were just about to say grace."

Foreman clenches his teeth. _Who's a bad mother--shut your mouth!_ interrupts any excuse he might make. "Sorry. It's...the hospital," and he is going to _murder_ House for fucking with his ringtone and destroying any illusion of professionalism he might have. "Start without me." He maneuvers out of his chair and eases through the narrow space between the wall and five relatives, all squeezed around the too-big holiday table in the too-small dining room. He's pulling out his phone and flipping it open before he gets to the relative dimness and quiet of the hallway. "You changed my ringtone," he snaps as soon as he gets the phone to his ear.

"You abandoned me during the season of togetherness." House sounds supremely unconcerned, and also like he's eating something--Foreman can hear the clink of a spoon and House's juicy chomps, and fainter, the kaleidoscope sound of the television flipping through every channel House gets, over and over again.

"We just started dinner--"

House fucking smirks--Foreman can _hear_ it--probably congratulating himself on his timing. _Bastard_. "Which you didn't invite me to."

"You wouldn't sit down with _your_ family for Christmas, let alone--"

"I already know when my family will get embarrassingly personal. Yours might be a good change up." House chews again, and then clears his throat, swallowing. Foreman clenches a fist and strides further from the dining room so that he won't be overheard if he yells. "_In_teresting that you decided to go home for the holiday after eight _years_\--"

For fuck's sake. Of course House wants to go over this _now_, after being surprisingly pliant about Foreman packing his bags and leaving him with teeth-gritted instructions to stay out of Foreman's apartment for the duration. "My mother--"

House gives a disdainful grunt. "You could visit her in August wearing a Santa hat and she'd be thrilled you remembered Jesus' birthday."

Foreman slumps back against the hallway wall, his head tipping back and cracking against the corner of a picture frame. "Shit!" he says, bending forward to rub the bruise. The frame rattles on the wall and his dad calls, "Eric? We're carving the turkey."

"I have to take this, Dad," he calls back, cupping the phone against his shoulder for a second. He brings it back to his ear and hisses, "What the hell do you want, House?"

"Why'd you leave your phone on during Christmas dinner, _Eric_?"

Frustration simmers under Foreman's skin. His suit feels too hot and too restrictive, tie suddenly too tight. He hates when House uses that syrupy tone, as if he's about to start spouting off flowery endearments that don't mean a fucking thing. "I'm turning it off now."

"Right, after you hang up." House's voice radiates self satisfaction. Foreman pictures him, slumped on his couch, legs sprawled open just a bit, a beer bottle--or, no, it's Christmas; a tumbler of bourbon--at his elbow. Christ. Foreman takes a few more steps, towards the back staircase. The lights are off upstairs. His old room's the guest bedroom now, but it's been ceded back to him in the land war between cousins and cousins-once-removed that has been raging since Aunt Erda claimed that she and Uncle Irv couldn't share the sofabed and he'd need Marcus' old room.

House's silence is nearly unnerving. Foreman can almost hear him breathing--waiting for Foreman to hang up? Maybe he expects that. And for Foreman to turn off his phone and leave it off for the next three days.

Fuck. Three _days_. It's already been two. The heat under Foreman's suit is starting to turn into a sneaking, tingling, _stupid_ idea. He glances over his shoulder at the light spilling out of the dining room. He can just hear his dad asking who likes white and who wants dark, even though no one's changed their opinion in thirty years. Aunt Erda is starting to get loud, complaining about the roads outside her house and how the city won't clear them no how, and she can't count on her sons to come by and shovel, _Rodney I guess you know what I'm saying, these boys won't do anything like that, they won't even visit without a gold invitation_, and his cousin's kids have started to whine about their peas touching their sweet potatoes on their plate, or that somebody kicked them under the table.

"Is this supposed to be high school?" House's voice startles him after he managed to be quiet for all of sixty seconds. He's not putting on a whiny voice or prodding Foreman with his curiosity. He sounds like he's smirking, and Foreman's edginess jumps up, sweat starting in his armpits. "Because I'm not playing 'you first'."

Foreman snorts. Christ, why _did_ he come home for Christmas? "House," he says, lowering his voice until it's dark and purposeful. He puts one foot on the first stair. "What the hell do you _want_?"

House inhales, sharp enough for Foreman to hear clearly. The next sound he makes is muffled, but Foreman's mouth quirks when he catches it--low, nearly subliminal, a thoughtful, pleased _hmm_. "Your father asked you to Thanksgiving and you barely answered the message," he says. "You brushed him off when he came to Princeton..."

Foreman rolls his eyes. House trying to psychoanalyze him should not sound like a come-on. But it _would_ be how House gets comfortable, shoulders sinking back into the couch, legs slouching a little wider apart. Foreman takes the stairs two at a time and turns right at the top, into his room. The door clicks closed behind him and--from years of teenage practice--he swings the desk chair quickly under the doorknob. "House. Shut up."

House gives his quiet hum again. Such a fucking smug bastard. "Where'd you go? Bathroom?"

"My room." Foreman sits on the bed. Nervy shocks of arousal run along the undersides of his forearms, gather warmly in the pit of his stomach. "You're sitting at home alone on Christmas Eve, when you know Wilson would drag you over if you let him. Your mom's probably worried sick about you, _again_\--"

"Open your pants." House's voice cracks through the phone, sharp, and Foreman grins. That's more like it. Turn around his own jackass tactics on him and he can't take the heat.

"You first." But he's already shrugging out of his suit coat, fingers fumbling at his throat to loosen his tie. Through the vents from downstairs he can hear the vague echo of dinner--cutlery banging flatware, Irv asking querulously for the cranberry sauce to be passed--and he says, flat and certain, "This is why you called."

House makes a dismissive sound, as if the idea never even occurred to him. "Yeah, and my penis dialled the phone. Get on your knees."

"Yeah. Pulling your jeans down. You're probably hard already. How long were you pretending not to jerk off before you called?" House doesn't answer, but Foreman doesn't need it. He can already imagine House drinking, staring blankly at the television, one hand pressing against his crotch and using the endorphins to draw out the time between one pill and the next. The buttons on his shirt are awkward as hell to open one handed. Foreman rips the last one off, _fuck_, but it'll be hidden when he tucks his shirt in after. This can't take too long or his dad will send someone knocking. "I'm going to suck you," he says. "Get your dick in my mouth and make you beg."

House grunts, and Foreman barely catches the sound of his zipper, the shove of denim as House gets his jeans open, over the sound of his own breath. He's poised, shifting back on the bed to sit against the headboard, listening with every fibre for House's sounds or the shift downstairs that will lead to a creak on the stairs.

"Jesus, what's your hang-up with begging?" House says. His breathing's faster, too, and Foreman frowns and closes his eyes, wondering if he's still wearing his t-shirt or if it's crumpled on the couch beside him. He sounds like he's taking it slow, working himself up, nearly teasing. Good. It's what Foreman would be doing, and he likes that House is picturing that, picturing him on his knees, tongue finding that spot on the underside of House's dick, hand cupping his balls and fingers working back behind to press rhythmically against his perineum. "_Beg me for it, House, say please and I'll let you come_\--you sound like you need to tie me up just to get off."

"Yeah, right." House fucking _loves_ to beg, loves it when Foreman _makes_ him. The thought stirs his cock and Foreman reaches down, unable to stop himself from one lingering squeeze. "Mm. You want that? You know you liked the blindfold. Came so hard for me..." He can't afford to stain his trousers, he can't change before he goes back downstairs. He clutches the phone between his ear and shoulder and opens his fly, pushing his pants and boxers down and off, kicking them away. Except for the shirt hanging off his shoulders, he's naked, arousal slowly filling his cock, and he slides his fingers around himself, breath catching for an instant. "I could make you wait. Fuck you slow."

House shuts up. Foreman can't even hear his breathing, he's too noisy himself. Probably House has stopped stroking himself, if he was. Foreman shouldn't have brought up the blindfold, not when he's not right beside House to kiss his stupid freeze-up away. House is probably caught right now between remembering just how good Foreman made it and hating himself for loving it, and showing he loved it. Foreman doesn't bother reassuring him because he'd like to get off sometime this century, so he focuses on fisting his erection, giving it to himself the way he likes. The way House _knows_ he likes, and avoids on purpose for that reason, forcing Foreman to come in new and inventive ways even on the lazy nights when Foreman just wants to get off before he goes to sleep. This is the easiest, fastest way. Right hand keeping the phone to his hear, left hand twisting over the head of his cock and then squeezing right down to the base. "Uh. Feels good," he says. "Better if you fucked me..."

House's voice comes slowly, with a hint of bitterness. He's listening, yeah, but he's not getting any closer. Probably thumbing his dick, edging, but refusing to give in. "You don't want that."

"You know I do." He likes it sometimes, anyway. Tonight, yeah, it's what he wants. House's weight, which he already misses, that hot solid friction. House's imperfect, awkward, lopsided thrusts, the near-accidental jolts when he finds Foreman's prostate. "If you were here--"

"If I was there your family would be asking when you turned into a fairy."

House is sneering, getting wrapped up in his own fucking insecurities, which is _not_ why Foreman came up here. Pleasure and annoyance mix, in their usual ratios, and there is no way House screwing with his mind is enough to make him stop, not when he's already this hard. "You'd have me on my bed. They're all downstairs. We could say it was work. Consultation. Think you could make me so loud they'd hear us?"

"Fuck." It's nearly a whisper, but Foreman hears it and triumph slams through him, making him groan sharply on the next upstroke of his hand.

"Yeah. Yeah, make me, House, come on."

House's voice comes through to him, quietly now like he's not paying attention to how he's holding the phone. Intent, like he's yanking secrets out of Foreman, like this is all an interrogation. "You'd fuck yourself on my dick, wouldn't you."

"Yeah..." He would. Abs tensing as he hovered over House, watching his chest heaving, his eyes dark with smug calculation. Hold him down, fight him or fuck him or make it all the same thing, a battle to see who could make the other one come first. Squeezing harder, precome slicking his palm--fuck, he needs lube, but there's none here and this'll have to do, the slight chafe heightening the drawing pleasure. "House. Mmn, Christ...want you."

House groans, shuddery, deep in his throat--mouth open and wet, Foreman guesses, and he wants to kiss House and swallow his sounds, kiss him as he comes, the bright sharp scrape of his stubble burning Foreman's cheeks and throat. House's breathing stutters, quickens, and a stream of words comes through the phone, into Foreman's ear and straight down to his cock. "Yeah, faster. _There_\--Foreman, you fucking--"

_Bastard_. Manipulative bastard. Making Foreman come on the bed he slept in for seventeen years, while his family eats Christmas dinner downstairs, and he has no idea how loud he's being, what the vents are carrying. He bites down on his lip but the high, sharp moan escapes him anyway. "_Yes_. House, _fuck_." Semen spurts over his stomach, his hands, swiped down the length of his cock as he rides it out, hand pumping faster with the new slickness. His right hand clenches around the phone--he's probably in danger of snapping it in half--but it carries the urgent, swift sound of House's grunts as he comes, a few seconds after Foreman's finally started to come down.

Panting, Foreman slumps back against the headboard. There are tissues on the night stand and he reaches for a handful, his palm slick and sticky.

"That's why you left your phone on," House says, his voice low and sex-lazy and so self-satisfied that Foreman can't help smiling.

He only answers with a grunt, though, as he's wiping down his stomach. No point in confirming it. He crumples the tissues into a ball and throws them at the garbage can. Miss. "I came here to tell my dad," he says, eyes closed. Not that he has, yet. Maybe he doesn't have the fucking courage.

He doesn't need to see House to know that he stiffens, defensiveness twitching his shoulders straight. "Why the fuck would you do that?"

Foreman shrugs. "Why did you call?" he shoots back. Not like he expects an answer, because he knows. Because House knows. _Because we just had phone sex after I was gone for only two days._

"Fine," House snaps, and just like that, the line goes dead.

Foreman shakes his head. _Fine_, he thinks, and knows that House won't mind.


End file.
